


Another Place, Another Time

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Bottom Hank, Confident Connor, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is a Tease, Connor gonna make ya swoon, Connor has mad swagger, Disaster bi Hank Anderson, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluffy Ending, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Magic, Magic!Connor, Romantic Fluff, Top Connor, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), implied bottom Hank, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 03:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: When Connor’s voice calls out, “The gentleman seems to not have heard me,” Hank startles to see him staring directly at him. A coy smile rests on Connor’s face and Hank knows he recognizes him, “Would the gentleman be so kind as to come on stage to assist me with my next act?”Hank feels frozen under the gaze of an entire theater. A gentle nudge presses at his back, but when he twists around to see who’s prodding him, no one is there. Once on his feet, his legs feel as if they’re moving without his permission.Once he’s planted firmly center stage, Connor leans in as if in introduction. He cups his fingers over his mic with one hand before slotting the other into Hank’s. His voice comes out quiet and velvet soft, “A pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant.”__Hank doesn't believe in magic, but Connor's testing his resolve.





	Another Place, Another Time

“This is dumb,” Hank says with a grin as he watches Cole clap in delight at the magician’s simple tricks.

“The kids seem to like it,” Ben rumbles back before resting his arms on top of his considerable belly. He smiles fondly at his nephew all but bouncing with excitement. He leans toward Cole as he points excitedly at a rabbit springing out of a hat.

Hank makes a sound of agreement, “Must be nice, still being innocent enough to believe in this kind of stuff.”

Hank starts paying more attention when the man hands Cole a solid gold coin, asking him to try to break it. Unsurprisingly, the coin remains whole in his small hands. Taking it back, the magician winks before placing it between his teeth and snapping it in half. Cole makes elated grabby hands, wanting to inspect the coin to make sure the two pieces are real.

Hank’s amused chuckle turns into a startled, strangled sound when the magician shakes his hat and a pigeon explodes out of it with a squawk. He mutters, “Shut up,” when Ben chuckles at him. The show lasts for about twenty minutes, which turns out to be perfect because five-year-olds can’t be expected to sit still much longer than that.

A plump brunette calls from inside the house, “Anybody want cake?” Hank gives the woman a thumbs up when the kids all start shouting in a chorus, “I do! I do!”

Hank watches the magician start packing up his things before sidling up to him, “Wanna stick around for some cake?” The man continues to add item after item into the suitcase, and Hank wonders how it all fits in there.

Snapping the suitcase closed, the man straightens up with a smile, “Your wife practically demanded I help eat it to prevent her from doing so.”

A pink tinge appears across Hank’s cheeks, “Uh, she’s not my wife. Hasn’t been for about three years now anyway.” When the magician continues to look at him expectantly, Hank persists in oversharing, “We get along and everything—our son is great—but, uh, yeah. Not married, so…” he drifts off, making little finger guns for reasons that are beyond his comprehension.

When Hank lapses into an embarrassed silence, the man throws him a rope, “My name is Connor, by the way. I didn’t catch yours. Your not-wife booked the show.”

Hank scratches at the back of his neck, happy to seize any new topic of conversation, “Heh, yeah. Carol does most of the party planning. If it were left up to me, there’d just be cake and a piñata. Name’s Hank.” He holds out his hand, and Connor takes it. Years on the force have calloused his palms whereas Connor’s are smooth.

True to her word, Carol starts harassing Connor about cake the moment the man enters the house with Hank in tow, “Mr. Arkait, how big of a slice would you like?” She holds the cake knife as if it were a weapon and Connor wisely acknowledges he doesn’t have a choice in the matter of cake consumption.

After turning down a third piece of cake, Connor says his farewells. Hank watches Connor from the living room window as he leans deeply into his trunk. Hank colors hotly when his eyes linger for a moment on the seat of the magician’s pants. He hesitates, wondering if he should offer to help him load up his equipment. Cole streaking out the door past him forces his hand.

“Mr. Magic Man! Wait, please!” Connor places the last of his equipment into the trunk as Cole reaches him. Hank watches in confusion as the lid appears to close itself. Shaking his head at the marvels of modern car technology, he catches up to Cole in time to hear, “One more trick! Please?”

When Connor’s eyes flick up to Hank’s to get permission, Cole presses the issue like any well-practiced five-year-old, “Pleasepleasepleaseplease?” Hank gives Connor an amused nod and the man reaches up to Cole’s ear. A half-second later, he produces a coin much to Cole’s delight. It’s smaller than the one he snapped in two during his act; it looks like an ordinary quarter.

Cole giggles and claps with glee when Connor rolls the coin across his knuckles before snapping it into the air. It lands precisely in the center of his palm, and he extends it out to Cole, “For the birthday boy.” Cole takes off running to show his mom his, “new magic coin.” He’s already gone when Connor tries to explain it’s regular pocket change, but he doesn’t hear him.

He offers Hank a small smile, “I’m glad he liked my show. It was a pleasure to meet you, Hank.” He shakes his hand once more, Connor’s grip lingering for longer than strictly necessary. Hank wavers on the verge of speech when Connor drops his hand and steps into his car. With a wave, he pulls out of the drive and Hank feels himself deflate.

When he shuffles back into the house to help clean up the disaster left in the wake of a dozen children, he hears Carol huff at him.

“What?” It comes out defensive and he knows he’s already lost this battle. Carol and he may get along, but she could be an interfering trout when she wanted to be.

“You didn’t say anything to him, did you?” Hank stares at her incredulously before she starts in on him, “I swear you’re worse than a teenage girl. You followed that man around with moon eyes for the last hour he was here.”

“Oh, I did not,” Hank grouses as he collects plates with smears of icing and crumbs, “’Sides, he was way too young.” He can practically hear Carol put her hands on her hips. Sure enough, when he turns around he finds her with one arm akimbo and the other jabbing a wooden spoon in his direction.

“We’ve talked about this—fought about this—you don’t get to decide what other people think and feel. Maybe he likes his men refined and more experienced.”

“ _Old_ you mean,” Hank grumbles. At a pointed look from his ex-wife, he sighs, “Ro-ro, even if age wasn’t an issue, what on earth makes you think he’s interested in men?” Hank isn’t quite sure when Carol had figured out his tastes in woman _and_ men, but he deeply wishes he could go back in time and prevent it from happening.

Carol wrinkles her nose at him before sniffing, “Don’t you use pet names against me, Henry. By that same logic, you can’t possibly know that he _isn’t_. You won’t get anything you don’t ask for.”

Conceding defeat at being first name’d, Hank raises his hands, “Alright, alright. It’s a moot point now anyway.” Carol devotes the rest of the time cleaning up to muttering under her breath about sissy ex-husbands until Hank tells her to put a cork in it.

Nights like this remind him why they always did better as friends than as a couple. Cole had been a surprise and they both thought they were doing the right thing by getting married. It hadn’t lasted long. By Cole’s first birthday, they were at each other’s throats, bickering and picking at details that didn’t matter. They were divorced and happier for it the following year.

Carol sighs behind him and the inflection of it makes him wonder if she’s thinking about their failed marriage, too. “Sorry,” she mumbles at last. Hank waves a hand at her to brush it aside. He sees her go ramrod straight abruptly and can practically hear the cogs in her brain churning.

“I have his number,” she whips around to scrabble at her purse before producing a card, victory etched on her face, “He gave me his card. You should call him.” She all but shoves it into Hank’s hand and he accepts it if only to get her to stop talking about it.

When he says, “I’ll think about it,” she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, sure. I know you. You’re going to chuck it the moment you get home.” More than ready to leave by this point, Hank vacates the kitchen in search of Cole.

“Hey buddy,” he ruffles his hair when he finds him running in circles out back with his friends, all of them no doubt fueled by sugar.

Cole pivots and launches himself at his dad, “Did you see? Did you see? The magic man made money come out of my head!” Hank chuckles and considers telling Cole none of it’s real, but decides against it. There will come a day when Cole stops believing in magic and infinite possibilities; Hank isn’t going to be the one to trigger it.

“Sure did, kiddo. You gonna be good for your mom tonight? Not gonna stay up too late?” Cole nods enthusiastically before squirming out of Hank’s arms.

“Yep! Jimmy’s gonna stay the night and so it Kyle! We’re gonna build forts and play cops and robbers and—,” Hank smiles, only half listening as Cole rambles on as is the wont of young children.

“You do that buddy. Try not to drive your mom nuts.” He bids Carol farewell and good luck before walking back to his own house. It was nice, being so close, but he still missed having Cole around all the time.

“Well, Sumo, it’s just you and me tonight,” he pets the large dog’s head on his way to the kitchen. After all that party food and sugar, he just wants something with protein. Settling on cold Chinese take-out, he settles onto the couch. After fifteen minutes of pretending to watch an old sitcom, he gives into curiosity. Tugging at the card that’s been burning a hole in his pocket from the moment he placed it there, he squints at the information.

He sees a number and a website with Connor’s name and company logo embossed on the front. Hank huffs in irritation when he sees it’s an 800 number. “Of course,” he mutters to the empty room. He should’ve realized a business card wouldn’t offer up Connor’s personal phone number.

Still, he pulls out his phone and punches in the listed URL. A modern website boasts of Connor’s services. Hank’s eyes go wide when he realizes Connor is a full-blown illusionist. He has parties listed as one of his services, but Hank can tell straight away that live performances on stage are Connor’s bread and butter.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he purchases a ticket for the following night. Carol will have Cole for the entire weekend so he may as well do _something_ with his time. He’s surprised to see how few seats remain, and he ends up with a seat closer to the back than it is to the middle. “At least it’s an aisle seat,” he says to himself.

The next evening finds him fussing over his closet in a way he hasn’t in years. Rejecting one shirt after the other, he resolves to expand his wardrobe in the near future. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he settles on a striped shirt before throwing on the snappiest jacket he owns. The website had informed him most patrons adopted a business casual look, so he gives it his best shot.

Primping more than he’d ever admit to, he trims his beard and nose hairs. He tells Sumo to be a good boy before making his way to the address listed on the website. He’s been to Fisher Theatre a handful of times for various plays and musicals, but he’s never been to see an illusionist. He hopes he didn’t flush away $75 for more of what he saw at Cole’s birthday party.

When Connor appears out of thin air on stage, Hank has to bite back a strangled sound. While everyone else gasps in shock or surprise, Hank can’t stop staring at the man himself. Connor had dressed casually if not a little ironically for Cole’s party. He’d brought a top hat and cloak—the typical magician look.

Here, he’s wearing fitted pants with a tight forest green vest over a white shirt with poufy sleeves. The whole getup looks vaguely Victorian. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the intense gaze on Connor’s face. It’s hard to tell from this distance, but it looks like Connor may have added kohl around his eyes. Hank mutters mental swear words at his poor seat location.

Hank isn’t easily impressed, but Connor’s show is unlike anything he’s seen. Most magic acts that go viral revolve around crazy theatrics or death-defying feats such as escaping from chains in a glass container full of water. Connor’s show features impressive if not disconcerting elements.

For one trick, he borrows a woman’s handkerchief and tucks it in his pocket for safekeeping. Half an hour later, he asks for a volunteer, only to reveal the handkerchief tied around their ankle. At one point, he walks straight off stage without appearing to realize he’s walking on thin air. When the audience gasps and starts to point excitedly, he grins. “Sorry about that,” polite embarrassment colors his tone as if the entire thing was truly a mistake.

He proceeds to walk down to the ground as if on steps no one else can see. A bold cynic seated nearby jumps up to try and find a clever trick of the eye, but she encounters nothing solid where Connor had been standing. Chagrinned, the woman slinks back to her seat. Hank continues to watch the show, growing more confused with each act. He _knows_ there must be a plausible explanation for every seemingly impossible thing Connor does, but nothing comes to mind.

When the curtain drops, Hank rises with the other guests to give thunderous applause. He knows Connor meets with fans after the show, but his confidence wanes when he sees the long line of people waiting. Most of them are younger and more attractive. Hank leaves, feeling like he’s being watched. He glances back once, but Connor’s smiling kindly at a young woman. 

That night, Hank makes the impulse decision to buy a theater package. He needs to see Connor perform again; he needs to know how it’s done. As a cop, Hank is used to looking past subterfuge. This first night, he’d been awestruck. He resolves not to let himself fall for it again.

Three weeks and three shows later, Hank is no closer to understanding how these tricks work or to actually approaching Connor. He firmly tells himself he’s imagining it whenever Connor’s eyes seem to drift to where he’s sitting in the audience. He has a different seat every time and it’s practically impossible for Connor to see into the audience with the lights shining in his face. Still, his head has a preference to look in Hank’s direction.

On his fourth viewing of Connor’s show, Hank is at least pleased with his seat. It’s the closest he’s been to the stage yet. He’s not in any of the premium rows, but he’s close enough to see a couple of the more obvious moles dotted at random on Connor’s neck. He maintains the oddly period piece clothing, but this evening he’s ditched the vest. A loose flowing white shirt tucks into the familiar fitted pants. The lacing around the neck is loose and Hank can see Connor’s pale collarbones peeking out at him.

He startles out of his reverie when a blazing bright light shines in his face. Blinking several times, he looks around, trying to understand what’s going on. He sees several disappointed women clutching at handkerchiefs and he surmises Connor must be including the audience again.

When Connor’s voice calls out, “The gentleman seems to not have heard me,” Hank startles to see him staring directly at him. A coy smile rests on Connor’s face and Hank knows he recognizes him, “Would the gentleman be so kind as to come on stage to assist me with my next act?”

Hank feels frozen under the gaze of an entire theater. A gentle nudge presses at his back, but when he twists around to see who’s prodding him, no one is there. Once on his feet, his legs feel as if they’re moving without his permission.

Once he’s planted firmly center stage, Connor leans in as if in introduction. He cups his fingers over his mic with one hand before slotting the other into Hank’s. His voice comes out quiet and velvet soft, “A pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant.”

Hank just stares, trying to work out how Connor knows his rank. He remains standing like a statue, uncertain what else he can do while being watched by a roomful of people. Connor steps away, holding out a hand at Hank, introducing him to the audience.

“Hank, ladies and gentlemen. For this trick, I shall make this fine fellow disappear. Rest assured, no harm will come to him while he is in my care.” At a crunching sound, Hank whips around to see a tall box come gliding forward. It’s around seven feet tall and three feet wide. Overall, it looks rather claustrophobic.

It’s a standard trick, as far as garden variety magic goes, but Hank’s certain Connor has something whimsical and impossible planned. Despite his assurance, Hank feels anxiety prickle down his neck. Before he can try to back out, refuse to play along, he feels cool fingers on his wrist, guiding him to the box. Once fully inside the dark space, Connor gives him a comforting smile and whispers, “See you soon.”

The instant Connor shuts the door, Hank wants out of the pitch-black container. The silence is unnatural and presses in on him as if the outside world has fully ceased to exist. At a gentle tap from the other side, Hank pushes open the door, more than ready to breathe in the open air.

Instead, he smells the sea. Raw, salt-tinged moisture envelops his face like a mask while the sound of the surf assaulting the sand buffets at his ears. The air is thicker and hotter here, causing sweat to form along Hank’s hairline.

“This is impossible,” the words tumble out of his mouth while he does a slow turn, taking in the small room he’s stepped into. It has a cottage feel with it’s white-washed, wood-plank walls. A large window reveals the ocean through frilly curtains fluttering in the breeze.

“I wanted a moment in private,” Hank jumps at the sound of Connor’s voice and whirls around to face the man. A pleasant smile curves at his lips and most of Hank’s initial fear melts at the sight of it. “Although, I’m afraid we really do only have a moment.” Hank tries to think of something more to say, but his brain is stuck on this impossible thing happening to him.

“You’ve come to several of my shows, but you never come to speak to me after. I wish you would.” At those words, Hank decides on the spot that he is hallucinating.

Hank watches as if in a dream as Connor lifts a hand to his own ear. When he brings it back down, his fingers uncurl to reveal a card pinned between his forefinger and middle finger, “My number—my _personal_ number.” When Hank doesn’t make a move to take it, Connor steps forward and slips the card into Hank’s breast pocket. He pats it lightly as if to make sure it will stay put before allowing his hand to rest for a moment against Hank’s broad chest.

With a wink, Connor gives him a gentle shove, urging him back through the door. Hank sees Connor’s lips move, but his voice comes to him as an echo, “Call me.” When the door closes shut, the disorienting silence returns. The smell and sound of the salty sea vanish as well, leaving Hank uncomfortably off balance.

Within seconds, the door opens again and Hank emerges from the box to thunderous applause. Whatever Connor had been doing on stage had obviously been impressive. The sweat on his brow cools, making him shiver.

“Welcome back, Hank! I trust you enjoyed your trip?” Hank’s eyes dart to Connor’s, seeking reassurance about what he’d just experienced. Was it all an illusion? Had he somehow hypnotized him? Doubt, as reliable as the rising sun, surges through his veins.

But then, Connor winks. He nods at Hank’s shirt and Hank’s hand rises unconsciously to feel the card still in his pocket. He nods weakly in answer to Connor’s question and performs a clumsy bow when Connor holds out a hand at him, thanking him for his assistance.

Hank bypasses Connor’s post-show meet-and-greet like usual, but this time, when he turns back for one last glimpse, the man is looking him dead in the eye with a winsome smile on his face. He arches one eyebrow as if in a challenge before returning his attention to the young man quivering in excitement before him.

Hank spends the next two days staring at the card, picking it up, then putting it back down. He’s already memorized the number, written in flowing script in dark green ink, but he needs to touch the card to make sure it’s real.

When he finally dials the number, he hangs up after it rings twice. Growling in frustration at himself, he dials it again. This time, it picks up before the end of the first ring.

“Good evening, Lieutenant.”

Hank remains mute for two seconds before remembering he needs to speak if he wants to take part in this conversation, “How’d you know it was me?”

Connor laughs and it is a pleasant and beautiful sound. It makes Hank think of apple orchards, the crisp taste of the fruit on the tip of his tongue.

“I don’t give my number out to just anyone, Hank.” He likes how his name sounds on Connor’s lips.

Connor steers most of the conversation. He’s not sure why this beautiful man is interested in him when literally dozens of men and women his own age fawn over him after every show. By the end of the conversation, Hank’s agreed to a date to go—

“Apple picking?” he asks the question incredulously. There is no way, absolutely none, that Connor could know what he’d been thinking only moments ago; Hank also highly doubts it’s a coincidence.

“I’ve been told there’s a lovely orchard off the beaten path. I’ve been meaning to go visit while apples are still in season. I’d prefer to have some company if you’re amenable to it.” Hank always trips over how formal Connor speaks, but it’s endearing. Hank spends most of his days with loud, crass officers who can’t finish a single sentence without at least three swear words.

“Yeah, I’m, uh, amenable.” Connor gifts him another soft laugh and they agree to a place and a time. In the days between then and now, Hank works himself into a frenzy. Caving finally, he makes a point to tell Carol they need to discuss something when he walks Cole over on a Friday night.

Once they have Cole tucked into bed, Carol beckons at him to join her on the back porch. He lights a cigarette and she raises her eyebrows at him, “Wow. Must be something big if it’s got you smoking.” Hank makes an affirmative sound at her while he strikes a match, bringing it to the tip. It flares cherry red in the dark when Hank sucks in a breath. He exhales a cloud of smoke and coughs loudly, not used to the burn any longer.

“I got a date tomorrow night.” He sees Carol go still at the new information and he wonders if maybe it isn’t the most tactful thing to discuss with an ex, no matter how well you get along.

After a moment, she gives him a tight smile, “That’s good. It’s about time, honest—oh!” He looks up at her and sees her mouth go round in a perfect circle, “It’s _him_ , isn’t it? The magician!” Hank rolls his eyes, but Carol never relents once she smells blood in the water.

“I _knew_ it!” she claps her hands gleefully like a child before launching into a litany of questions. Whatever reservations she’d had at the beginning of this conversation had clearly vanished at the mention of Connor.

After answering all of her questions, Hank leans back in his chair, tilting his head to exhale a nicotine cloud, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Carol. What do I even do on a date? What do I do with my hands?” When she snorts he continues, “No, literally. What do I do with them? Do they go in my pockets? Do I hold his hand? Do people even hold hands anymore? Fuck, I have no clue.”

He’s enormously thankful that it’s dark outside and Carol can’t see him blush. She places a comforting hand on his forearm, “Get a grip, Hank.” Her tone isn’t unkind and she has a soft smile on her face, “He must like you if he’s going on a date with you. By the sounds of it, he’s the one pursuing you.”

Hank runs a hand down his face, trying to figure out how to best phrase his next question, “Do you believe in magic, Carol?” She can’t hold back the laugh that barks out of her at it, and Hank doesn’t blame her.

“What, like the tricks he did at Cole’s party or—oh, god. Hank. Please do not tell me you mean love at first sight. That’s a bit much, even for you.”

Hank sighs, knowing that avenue of questioning had been pointless, “Nah, nothing like that. It’s just…it’s nothin’. He’s just really good at illusion, I guess.” Carol accepts the answer and Hank eventually takes his leave.

The next day, he decides dressing to go apple picking is infinitely easier than dressing to go to the theater. Picking out some comfortable jeans and a fitted flannel shirt, Hank heads out the door to meet Connor at the address he’d texted him the night before. He relaxes a little when he sees Connor is dressed much like him. He wasn’t sure how Connor dressed when not performing, now that he thinks about it.

Connor already has a large, empty bucket resting in the crook of his arm when Hank walks up to him, “I took the liberty of locating the least rusty pail.” Hank can’t help but smile.

“Thanks, not sure I’m up to date on my tetanus shot,” he says it with a wink and Connor grins back at him. They wander the rows of delicate apple trees, the crowds thinning out the deeper they go into the fields. Hank notices the lack of other voices around when Connor ascends a ladder to grope at a large, green apple.

He leans down to hand it to Hank, offering it out like a gift. “Try it,” he says simply. Hank shrugs and bites into it, fresh juice flooding his mouth. The taste is disorienting and Connor’s laugh melds with the flavor on his tongue. Hank pulls the apple away to stare at it before lifting his gaze to Connor.

He tilts his head to one side, looking pleased, “How’s it taste?”

Hank mumbles out a reply along the lines of _Good_ , but his suspicions won’t let him focus on normal conversation. Connor must notice Hank’s introspection because at the next tree, he asks, “Is something wrong?” while reaching out to pluck at more apples.

Hank takes a few from him and drops them in the pail while shaking his head, “Not really, no. It’s just…this doesn’t seem real.” When Connor gives him a confused look, he presses on, “I mean, where are all the people?”

Connor throws his head back in a laugh, “I’m sure I don’t know, Hank. Somewhere else.” Hank relaxes a little, realizing the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.

“It just feels like we’re the only ones here, like the rest of the world just…went away.” Connor climbs down a few rungs before reaching out a hand, the back of his knuckles brushing along Hank’s cheek. He’s too close like this. Hank can see golden flecks in warm brown eyes and he could count every freckle on Connor’s face if he wanted to at this distance.

“I know the feeling,” Connor says quietly, never breaking his gaze, “It usually happens when I’m with pleasant company.” Before Hank can think of a response to the compliment, Connor leans down into him. One hand holds onto the ladder while the other cups Hank’s face. Warmth spreads through Hank’s entire body at the first brush of Connor’s lips against his own. He tastes like apples.

Reality hits when Hank hears a little kid ask loudly, “What are they doing?” and his mom stage whispers that it’s rude to stare and point at people.

“Not so alone after all,” Connor murmurs through a grin, “Come on, let’s get another bucket.”

The orchard boasts plums and peaches as well, and Hank fills an entire bucket with each. He isn’t really one for fruit, but he doesn’t mind an excuse to make the date last for longer. They wander rows of fruit, picking them at random.

Connor asks Hank about Cole and his job as an officer. Hank asks Connor more about show business but doesn’t get much for his efforts. Connor doesn’t dodge the questions so much as he is a master of providing non-answers. He does, however, tell Hank about his childhood, his family, and his friends. As the afternoon fades into evening, Hank decides to let Connor have his secrets. It doesn’t surprise him; he’s never heard of magicians outright explaining how their tricks work.

Still, Hank isn’t quite ready to leave the orchard. Despite Connor’s claims to the contrary, the day has felt dreamlike. At some point, Connor had grabbed Hank by the bicep to point out two squirrels fighting over a plum that had fallen to the ground. He hadn’t dropped his hold, opting instead to link arms. Hank isn’t ready to let it go.

When Hank asks if Connor wants to get another bucket, he eyes the three heaping pails they already have sitting by Hank’s car with an amused expression, “I had no idea fruit played such a heavy role in your diet, Hank.” A slight flush tinges Hank’s cheeks, but Connor tugs him along down a path they haven’t walked yet, “We can leave these here. I doubt anyone will take them.”

They stroll along the path, arm in arm, for the better part of twenty minutes. Hank bites back a comment about the weather on several occasions, mentally flagellating himself that he can do better than small talk.

“It’s unseasonably warm for Detroit in the fall,” Hank deflates slightly when Connor says what he’s been thinking.

“Am I that boring?” He tries to ask the question as if it’s a joke, but Connor frowns at him.

“No,” is all he says while slowing his stride. When he stops walking altogether, Hank turns slightly to look at him, “Why would you ask that?”

Heat creeps up the back of Hank’s neck, wondering if he should give up talking altogether. He looks to the sky in search of a response that can salvage the conversation. When nothing comes to him, he decides to go for the truth.

With a small shrug, he tugs Connor into motion again, “I dunno…people are usually bored when they start talking about the weather.”

“Ah,” Connor makes a small understanding sound, “I was just thinking it’s usually colder than this. It’s been an enjoyable afternoon. I had worried it might be too cold to stay out for long.”

“I’m glad it’s not,” Hank says with a squeeze of his arm and he sees Connor smile in his peripheral.

“As am I.”

Hank spies his car in the distance and realizes they must’ve taken a circular route. His stride slows noticeably. “Damn,” he mutters it under his breath, but Connor hears it all the same.

“Indeed,” he says in agreement, “I had hoped that path was a little longer.”

Hank nods, but uncertainty nibbles at his gut. “Tell me something,” he finally blurts out when they gather their buckets of fruit to go weigh and pay for them.

Connor’s hands seem to falter and his expression grows guarded, but he says quietly, “Alright.”

“Why me?” Connor relaxes at the question as if he expected something else.

He gives Hank a fond smile, “Because you were interested in me—not my show or my… _tricks_ ,” he says the word with distaste, as if he doesn’t agree with the implication, “You liked me for me. You offered me cake.”

Hank stares determinedly at his feet, mortification at the memory of that day slipping over him like a coat. “I made finger guns,” he grumbles, embarrassed.

Connor’s fingertips touch his cheek briefly before withdrawing to his side, “I found it endearing. Anyway, as I said, you’re the first person who hasn’t asked me to perform a trick or…” he trails off, his face growing dark with some unpleasant memory. “You like me,” he says simply after a moment of silence, as if it explained everything, “It’s not an experience I encounter often.”

Deciding to accept the answer for now, Hank hands over their haul to a cashier behind a counter. After paying, they linger outside his car. He feels younger than his years, hesitating around a goodbye. Connor’s already kissed him once today, but he wants more—more dates, more time with Connor. He’s just not sure how to do it.

“This was nice,” Connor offers, lobbing an easy pitch.

Hank takes a gracious swing at it, “Yeah, it was. I’d like to do it again sometime.” When Connor’s eyes light up with a smile, his nerves get the better of him, “I mean, not, uh, not necessarily this again. We could do something else like food—I mean dinner.” A blush curls up Hank’s chest, threatening to consume his face to the roots of his hair, but Connor’s smile doesn’t falter.

“I’d like that,” he says simply, then tilts his head, clearly waiting. Hank takes a step forward and Connor looks up at him. Hank’s hand drifts up to brush a stray lock of hair from Connor’s forehead before gingerly leaning down to kiss him. It’s as exhilarating as the first, perhaps even more. Connor’s hand finds its way to Hank’s chest, resting where it had when he’d placed his card in Hank’s shirt pocket.

The memory of it pulls Hank out of the moment. He wants to ask if it was real, but Connor’s explanation for why he’s here on this date keeps the words locked in his throat. He doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want to appear like those other people only interested in Connor’s skills as an illusionist.

He draws back and settles on establishing a tentative future instead, “So I’ll call you, yeah?”

As he says the words, Connor presses into his chest, “I look forward to it.”

Hank waits all of fifteen minutes after he gets home to make the call.

After their third date, Carol gets nosy, “How was it?” Hank startles at the question; they don’t often discuss their relationships. Hank, because he hadn’t had once since the divorce, and Carol, because there weren’t many worth mentioning. They’d agree, however, to talk about it if it was ever to affect Cole.

“It was fine—good, actually.” He says it cautiously, uncertain what Carol is gearing up to ask.

“That’s good,” she says, keeping her cards close to her chest. Finally, after a moment of hesitation, she admits, “I’d like to have him around sometime.”

Hank stares at her before blurting out a hasty, “Uh, no.”

She laughs at him, not unkindly, “I didn’t mean right away, Hank. It’s just…this is the most serious I’ve seen you with, well, anyone.” He nods in agreement and she presses her advantage, “I want to understand his intentions. He knows we have a son. It’s a big deal.”

Hank knows she’s right, but he’d like to enjoy the honeymoon phase of this delicate thing he’s building with Connor. The word _relationship_ sits heavy on his tongue; neither of them have discussed it yet. Three dates is hardly enough time for a person to commit to a divorcée with a child.

Even so, Connor’s never given any indication that he’s against the notion. If anything, Hank already knows he does well with children, given that he performs at birthday parties. He’s seen him interact with Cole, seen his patience with children, but that had been a snapshot. Handling a child for the duration of a party is a different thing altogether than raising one.

He wants to leave the question for later, but he knows it’ll only hurt worse the longer he puts it off if Connor doesn’t feel the same.

For their fourth date, they go to the theater—the same theater Connor usually performs at, to watch a play. Hank isn’t usually one for horror, but with Halloween around the corner, there weren’t many options. Connor had suggested they go see a play and Hank had opted for _Sleepy Hallow_.

By intermission, he has Connor’s hand in a vice grip. When a cool hand comes to rest on top of his, sandwiching it, Hank grumbles an apology, “Sorry, not big on scary stuff. Give me a perp, and I’ll chase him down. Launch a headless horseman at me, and, uh, yeah. I don’t handle it well.”

“I can see that,” Connor says while casting an amused glance down at their intertwined fingers, “Would you like to take a walk until they come back?” Hank nods but doesn’t release his grip on Connor’s hand when he rises.

“Wanted to talk to you about something,” he finally says while walking side by side, unable to have this conversation face to face. When Connor makes a _hmm_ sound, he continues, “It’s about Cole and us.” Connor remains quiet, waiting for Hank to elaborate. “Carol brought it up, but she has a point. I just…I need to know where you stand.”

Connor’s quiet for a moment, but he gives Hank’s hand a gentle squeeze while he thinks. After a few steps, he offers, “I know Cole is important to you. I assumed you were waiting to introduce me to him as part of your life. If you’re asking if I’m on board with that, the answer is yes. I wouldn’t have pursued you otherwise.”

Hank grins so widely, he briefly wonders if he broke his face, “Hey buster, I called you.”

Connor exhales a stuttered laugh through his nose, “Yes. Two days after I gave you my number, and you hung up the first time you dialed it.”

Hank mutters with mock-irritation about uppity significant others, but Connor just beams at him. An electric pulse runs through him at the realization he referred to them as a couple and Connor had made no move to correct him. He spends the second half of the show paying more attention to Connor’s hand in his than what’s happening on stage.

He relents to Carol’s incessant wheedling after another two months pass, “Hank. It’s been three months. It’s Christmas. You have a gift for him under your tree, for goodness sake. Cole can _read_ , you know.”

“I know,” he mutters cantankerously at her. When she makes a face that spells protracted nagging, Hank hastened to add, “I _know_ , ok?”

“Invite him to Christmas dinner, then,” her tone forbids argument and Hank sighs.

“Fine, but he might have plans of his own. He has friends—a family—he might not be able to make it.” Carol makes a face that tells Hank she disagrees.

“Well, you just let me know what he says. I’ll set out an extra plate just in case.”

To his surprise, Connor accepts. The dinner goes well and Cole claps at every sleight of hand Connor performs at his request. Hank can see Carol watching him like a hawk, but she relaxes when Cole lets out his third shrill giggle of the evening.

“Mr. Magic Man?” Cole tugs on Connor’s sleeve and he smiles down at him.

“Connor,” he supplies, but Cole rushes on in the way of children.

“Mr. Magic Connorman?” he hesitates, clearly wanting to ask something. Connor crouches down, putting Cole more at ease, offering him a kind smile. Cole frets at the bottom of his shirt before finally admitting in a panicked whisper, “I can’t find my magic coin.”

Connor’s smile broadens, “My apologies, Cole. That particular coin always finds its way back to me.” Hank startles at the statement and watches closely as Connor produces yet another coin from Cole’s ear. “The next time it goes missing, let me know. I can always call it home.” The child shrieks in delight before racing over to show his mom. Hank tries to examine it closer, but Cole won’t relinquish it. Even if he did, he doubts he’d be able to tell if it was truly the same coin.

From time to time, Hank is able to set aside the memory of being on stage with Connor. But then, he’ll smell salt trying to combat Detroit’s snow-choked streets, and he’ll remember the scent of the sea wafting in through an open window.

Moments like these force him to question what’s real and what’s for show. How much of what Connor does is an act and how much of it is genuine? He shakes his head, the logical side of his brain setting the memory aside. The more distance he gains from it, the easier it is to write it off as a skillful illusion.

Hank doesn’t think about it again until Valentine’s Day. He’d felt pressure building up to the day. He’s always been a man to eschew the commercialism of it. Why should he be pigeonholed into romance on one single day? But this time feels different; he wants it to be different.

The day itself is rainy and a miserable forty degrees. Cole is away for the weekend visiting Hank’s ex-in-laws. Connor had asked for a simple night in, just the two of them, and Hank is more than happy to oblige. When Connor arrives, dinner is set on the table, Hank’s hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that he knows Connor likes. He smiles at him before stepping out of his shoes and toeing them to the side of the door.

A pink hue spreads across his cheeks when Connor crosses the room and touches the fancy tablecloth, warm brown eyes taking in candles burning brightly. Hank prefers beer, but he decided at the last second that it would be gauche to dump beer into a wine glass. Connor’s preferred brand of sauvignon blanc rests in an ice bucket on the counter while two glasses sparkle on the table in the flickering candlelight.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he murmurs before pulling Hank down into a kiss. Connor’s kisses are usually sweet and slow, but this night he seems to want to swallow Hank whole. He leans into him hungrily, hands gripping at the collar of his shirt.

When he finally releases his hold on him, Hank asks, “You alright?”

When Connor’s eyes flick up to meet his, Hank sees barely contained desire there. _Oh_ , he thinks to himself, _so it’s going to be like that_.

“I’m more than alright, Hank. I’m with you.” Hank’s flush spreads until it disappears behind his beard. How Connor is able to make those kinds of declarations with a straight face is beyond Hank. He wonders if he’ll ever stop reacting this way; he hopes not.

Dinner is a distracted affair. Usually, Connor is sensual but controlled; tonight, he seems to vibrate with carnal energy. Connor’s socked foot strokes at Hank’s calves under the table. More than once, Hank drops his fork. When Connor’s foot ghosts between his thighs, Hank downs his wine in three gulps. Connor smiling over steepled fingers like the cat who’s about to devour the cream doesn’t help his nerves.

Hank rises to clear their plates and feels Connor’s arms snake around his sides before he sees them. “The dishes can wait,” he murmurs into Hank’s back, sending an electric tingle down his spine. Hank turns in his loose embrace to face him while Connor disentangles one of his arms to tug lightly at the tie holding Hank’s hair in place.

“For someone who claims to like my hair up, you sure do pull it down a lot,” Hank says quietly into the space between them. Connor presses into him as if trying to sink into his skin.

He slots his chin over Hank’s shoulder before murmuring into his ear, “That’s what I like about it. I like to take you apart one piece at a time, starting with this.” Hank shudders as much at the statement as he does at Connor’s fingers carding through his hair.

Connor always makes good on his promises. What he started in the kitchen, he finishes in Hank’s bedroom. Clothing peppers the hallway, one button missing from Hank’s shirt due to their impatience. Hank’s body turns to a trembling mass of need beneath Connor’s touch. Connor doesn’t leave him wanting for long.

Breathing raggedly, Hank flops onto Connor’s stomach, throwing one arm across his hip. He can smell the salty sweat on his skin, feel the lingering humidity in the room from the recent pressing of bodies. He remembers the summer heat, the sound of the waves. He wants to know and before his brain can stop him, he asks, “How d’you do it?”

Connor’s fingers find Hank’s hair, scratching at his scalp before asking back, “Do what?” Hank hears the coy tone in his voice, and he wonders if Connor knows just how often he’s wanted to ask this exact question.

Still, he hesitates. He doesn’t want to be like those people who fawn over Connor for his tricks. He just wants to _know_.

He tries to begin, “When I came to your show—” when Connor interrupts.

“You came to a lot of my performances, Hank,” he teases, fingers twirling around a lock of Hank’s hair.

“You know which one I mean,” he huffs out, feeling emboldened by Connor’s flirtatious attitude. When his hands go still, Hank worries he made a misstep after all.

Before he can backpedal, Connor admits softly, “I do.”

Connor’s fingers start to thread through Hank’s hair again, putting him at ease. After a few moments of internal struggle, he mumbles into Connor’s skin, “Was it real?”

He expects him to say no or to change the subject. Instead, Connor replies, “A magician never reveals his secrets.” Hank turns his head to look at Connor and sees the challenge hidden in his smile.

Hank never wanted to be like those people who swarmed Connor after his performances, but Connor’s kicked off a game he can’t suspend. Hank asks him every day after for a week straight. Connor sidesteps the question every time, each answer more clever than the last.

_Telling spoils the fun._

_I’ve heard several opinions on the matter—What’s yours?_

_Guess how it’s done, and I’ll tell you if you’re right. Guess wrong, and I won’t._

Hank doesn’t give up so much as he starts biding his time. He tries to spring the question on Connor when he’s least guarded: before bed, when first waking, after sex, once—and only once—during sex. He doesn’t regret the decision so much as he isn’t sure he could survive _that_ experience again.

Over time, the cat and mouse charade becomes more of a private joke than an actual request. After a year, Hank gives up on getting a real answer. After two, Connor ceases to deny him.

It’s a warm summer day, the kind that makes Hank sweat before he’s even gotten out of bed. Sprawled across the mattress clad only in boxers, Connor regards him with amusement from the doorway as he complains.

“It’s hot. It should be a crime to be this hot.” Hank wipes at his brow, feeling dampness there.

“We could go to the beach,” Connor suggests, “Feel the ocean breeze.”

Hank grunts in irritation before flopping an arm across his eyes, “The closest beach is at New Jersey.” Connor offers an amused _Oh?_ before Hank grumbles on, “I don’t want to drive nine hours to _New Jersey_.”

When Hank lapses into silence, Connor crosses the room to sit beside him on the bed. The mattress dips beneath him and Hank peeks out with one eye when Connor says, “That wasn’t what I was suggesting.”

“I’m not driving to Delaware either, Con—,” Connor’s fingers on his lips brings his words and his irritation to an abrupt halt.

“I could take us there. I have before.” The soft words circle around Hank’s skin like a cat looking for somewhere comfortable to sleep before settling on his chest. They feel heavy and he finds it hard to breathe under the weight of them.

Rising to his elbows, Hank’s eyes search Connor’s face before asking quietly, “Was it real?”

He tilts his head, his expression open and serene, “I’ll tell you on one condition.”

Hank’s lungs seize in his chest while his heart thumps wildly from lack of oxygen. He sucks in a shaky breath, trying not to appear overly eager, “Yeah, what’s that?”

Connor’s hand drifts to Hank’s forehead, moving to tuck away a stray piece of hair. His fingers trace along the shell of Hank’s ear, feeling cool despite the oppressive summer heat. When his hand pulls away, he’s dancing a silver band across slender, pale fingers, a soft smile on his face, “Will you marry me?”

Hank doesn’t remember his exact response, but he felt the word pulse in his heart. It follows him every day, beating a happy tattoo in his chest of _yes, yes, yes_ , until the moment when he’s standing face to face, hand in hand, with Connor.

When asked, “Do you take this man…” the rest of the question drifts away, lost somewhere in Connor’s smile. This time, though, he remembers saying the words, “I do.”

They honeymoon in a small cottage by the sea where no one can disturb them. It has white walls and fussy curtains. It overflows with love.

Their first night away from the rest of the world where responsibility waits, Hank buries his face in Connor’s hair, inhaling his scent. “Is this real?” he murmurs and Connor smiles into his neck.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake). 
> 
> I started this as a [twitter thread here](https://twitter.com/WorseMake/status/1087404359527419904).


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